CHAPTER XVI.
_In Which Mr. Temple Surprises His Daughter Weeping_.
THE Count Mirabel proceeded with his projects with all the ardour,address, and audacity of one habituated to success. By some means orother he contrived to see Miss Temple almost daily. He paid assiduouscourt to the duchess, on whom he had made a favourable impression fromthe first; in St. James'-square he met Mr. Temple, who was partial tothe society of a distinguished foreigner. He was delighted with CountMirabel. As for Miss Grandison, the Count absolutely made her hisconfidante, though he concealed this bold step from Ferdinand. Heestablished his intimacy in the three families, and even mystified SirRatcliffe and Lady Armine so completely that they imagined he must besome acquaintance that Ferdinand had made abroad; and they received himaccordingly as one of their son's oldest and most cherished friends.But the most amusing circumstance of all was that the Count, who even inbusiness never lost sight of what might divert or interest him, becamegreat friends with Mr. Glastonbury. Count Mirabel comprehended andappreciated that good man's character.
All Count Mirabel's efforts were directed to restore the influence ofFerdinand Armine over Henrietta Temple; and with this view he omitted noopportunity of impressing the idea of his absent friend on that lady'ssusceptible brain. His virtues, his talents, his accomplishments, hissacrifices; but, above all, his mysterious sufferings, and the fatal endwhich the Count was convinced awaited him, were placed before her ina light so vivid that they engrossed her thought and imagination. Shecould not resist the fascination of talking about Ferdinand Armine toCount Mirabel. He was the constant subject of their discourse. All herfeelings now clustered round his image. She had quite abandoned her oldplan of marrying him to his cousin. That was desperate. Did she regretit? She scarcely dared urge to herself this secret question; and yet itseemed that her heart, too, would break were Ferdinand another's. But,then, what was to become of him? Was he to be left desolate? Was heindeed to die? And Digby, the amiable, generous Digby; ah! why did sheever meet him? Unfortunate, unhappy woman! And yet she was resolved tobe firm; she could not falter; she would be the victim of her duty evenif she died at the altar. Almost she wished that she had ceased to live,and then the recollection of Armine came back to her so vividly! Andthose long days of passionate delight! All his tenderness and all histruth; for he had been true to her, always had he been true to her. Shewas not the person who ought to complain of his conduct. And yet shewas the person who alone punished him. How different was the generousconduct of his cousin! She had pardoned all; she sympathised with him,she sorrowed for him, she tried to soothe him. She laboured to unitehim to her rival. What must he think of herself? How hard-hearted, howselfish must the contrast prove her! Could he indeed believe now thatshe had ever loved him? Oh, no! he must despise her. He must believethat she was sacrificing her heart to the splendour of rank. Oh! couldhe believe this! Her Ferdinand, her romantic Ferdinand, who had thrownfortune and power to the winds but to gain that very heart! What areturn had she made him! And for all his fidelity he was punished;lone, disconsolate, forlorn, overpowered by vulgar cares, heart-broken,meditating even death------. The picture was too terrible, tooharrowing. She hid her face in the pillow of the sofa on which she wasseated, and wept bitterly.
She felt an arm softly twined round her waist; she looked up; it was herfather.
'My child,' he said, 'you are agitated.'
'Yes; yes, I am agitated,' she said, in a low voice.
'You are unwell.'
'Worse than unwell.'
'Tell me what ails you, Henrietta.'
'Grief for which there is no cure.'
'Indeed! I am greatly astonished.'
His daughter only sighed.
'Speak to me, Henrietta. Tell me what has happened.'
'I cannot speak; nothing has happened; I have nothing to say.'
'To see you thus makes me quite unhappy,' said Mr. Temple; 'if only formy sake, let me know the cause of this overwhelming emotion.'
'It is a cause that will not please you. Forget, sir, what you haveseen.'
'A father cannot. I entreat you tell me. If you love me, Henrietta,speak.'
'Sir, sir, I was thinking of the past.'
'Is it so bitter?'
'Ah! that I should live!' said Miss Temple.
'Henrietta, my own Henrietta, my child, I beseech you tell me all.Something has occurred; something must have occurred to revive suchstrong feelings. Has--has------ I know not what to say, but so muchhappens that surprises me; I know, I have heard, that you have seenone who once influenced your feelings, that you have been thrown inunexpected contact with him; he has not--he has not dared-----'
'Say nothing harshly of him,' said Miss Temple wildly; 'I will not bearit, even from you.'
'My daughter!'
'Ay! your daughter, but still a woman. Do I murmur? Do I complain? HaveI urged you to compromise your honour? I am ready for the sacrifice. Myconduct is yours, but my feelings are my own.'
'Sacrifice, Henrietta! What sacrifice? I have heard only of yourhappiness; I have thought only of your happiness. This is a strangereturn.'
'Father, forget what you have seen; forgive what I have said. But letthis subject drop for ever.'
'It cannot drop here. Captain Armine prefers his suit?' continued Mr.Temple, in a tone of stern enquiry.
'What if he did? He has a right to do so.'
'As good a right as he had before. You are rich now, Henrietta, and heperhaps would be faithful.'
'O Ferdinand!' exclaimed Miss Temple, lifting, up her hands and eyes toheaven, 'and you must endure even this!'
'Henrietta,' said Mr. Temple in a voice of affected calmness, as heseated himself by her side, 'listen to me: I am not a harsh parent; youcannot upbraid me with insensibility to your feelings. They have everengrossed my thought and care; and how to gratify, and when necessaryhow to soothe them, has long been the principal occupation of my life.If you have known misery, girl, you made that misery yourself. Itwas not I that involved you in secret engagements and clandestinecorrespondence; it was not I that made you, you, my daughter, on whomI have lavished all the solicitude of long years, the dupe of the firstcalculating libertine who dared to trifle with your affections, andbetray your heart.'
''Tis false,' exclaimed Miss Temple, interrupting him; 'he is as trueand pure as I am; more, much more,' she added, in a voice of anguish.
'No doubt he has convinced you of it,' said Mr. Temple, with a laughingsneer. 'Now, mark me,' he continued, resuming his calm tone, 'youinterrupted me; listen to me. You are the betrothed bride of LordMontfort; Lord Montfort, my friend, the man I love most in the world;the most generous, the most noble, the most virtuous, the most gifted ofhuman beings. You gave him your hand freely, under circumstances which,even if he did not possess every quality that ought to secure theaffection of a woman, should bind you to him with an unswerving faith.Falter one jot and I whistle you off for ever. You are no more daughterof mine. I am as firm as I am fond; nor would I do this, but that I knowwell I am doing rightly. Yes! take this Armine once more to your heart,and you receive my curse, the deepest, the sternest, the deadliest thatever descended on a daughter's head.'
'My father, my dear, dear father, my beloved father!' exclaimed MissTemple, throwing herself at his feet. 'Oh! do not say so; oh! recallthose words, those wild, those terrible words. Indeed, indeed, my heartis breaking. Pity me, pity me; for God's sake, pity me.'
'I would do more than pity you; I would save you.'
'It is not as you think,' she continued, with streaming eyes: 'indeedit is not. He has not preferred his suit, he has urged no claim. He hasbehaved in the most delicate, the most honourable, the most consideratemanner. He has thought only of my situation. He met me by accident. Myfriends are his friends. They know not what has taken place between us.He has not breathed it to human being. He has absented himself from hishome, that we might not meet.'
'You must marry Lord Montfort at once.'
'Oh! my fa
ther, even as you like. But do not curse me; dream not ofsuch terrible things; recall those fearful words; love me, love me;say I am your child. And Digby, I am true to Digby. But, indeed, canI recall the past; can I alter it? Its memory overcame me. Digby knowsall; Digby knows we met; he did not curse me; he was kind and gentle.Oh! my father!'
'My Henrietta,' said Mr. Temple, moved; 'my child!'
'Oh! my father, I will do all you wish; but speak not again as you havespoken of Ferdinand. We have done him great injustice; I have done himgreat injury. He is good and pure; indeed, he is; if you knew all, youwould not doubt it. He was ever faithful; indeed, indeed he was. Onceyou liked him. Speak kindly of him, father. He is the victim. If youmeet him, be gentle to him, sir: for, indeed, if you knew all, you wouldpity him.'